Death in the Cove, page 8
'Know any good jewellers?'
'Depends what you mean by good,' Daniels answered cryptically. 'There's the honest, decent sort, who sell new and very selective second-hand jewellery, or there's the possibly not-so-honest type who only sell second-hand stuff and act as a pawnbroker like Sebastian Conrad. He knows everyone and everything.'
'Does he know much about diamonds?'
'Why? Have we got some?'
'Possibly. I want someone to take a look at the stones in the dead man's cufflinks.'
'Then he's your man. He has a poky little shop off the seafront in Weymouth.'
Before calling on Conrad, Ryga instructed Daniels to call at Weymouth Police Station and leave the pictures of the victim to be circulated. Sandy Mountfort's article in the newspaper might prompt someone who lived and worked in the seaside town to report in. He also wanted to get the latest cigarette ends despatched to the Yard.
He had anticipated a quick visit, but word had got around that he was on the premises and he found himself being summoned to report to Chief Constable Ambrose. He was shown into an office where a shortish, stoutish man with grey hair and a squashed-up, lined face sat behind a desk that looked too big for him. Ryga gave his briefing succinctly. It didn't seem to please the man. He held back about his forthcoming visit to Sergeant Daniels' contact, Sebastian Conrad, and that Eva Paisley had taken pictures of the cufflinks; in fact, he didn't mention them at all and wondered why. Perhaps because he was laying a hunch they were significant and he wanted to see where they led first. He showed Ambrose the pictures of the body, the one full on and the close-up of the dead man's face. Ambrose's fleshy face puckered up even more as he peered at them through spectacles he had donned.
'Strange thing for a woman to do, take pictures. Most would have run a mile or had hysterics.'
'Not necessarily, sir,' Ryga said somewhat icily. 'Many women saw horrific atrocities during the war and did incredibly brave things.'
Ambrose grunted. 'Well, I wouldn't want my wife seeing such things then staying around and taking pictures of it. Doesn't sound natural to me or to a lot of people. If she is this hard,' he stabbed a squat finger at a picture, 'then she could be involved in the murder?'
Ryga said he was sure she wasn't.
'You'd be best to keep an open mind about her, Inspector,' came the sharp reprimand.
Ryga said he would and left feeling disappointed that memories were so short.
As Daniels drove along the seafront, Ryga took in the late summer scene. Elderly people squatted in stripy deckchairs, splaylegged, soaking up the warm early afternoon September sun, and a few children played with buckets and spades on the sandy beach. Just looking at them made Ryga feel hotter than he already was. After a short distance, Daniels indicated off the main road and threaded the car through a couple of narrow streets until he pulled up outside three tiny and rather seedy shops – one that boasted it sold sweets and sticks of rock, which would be in short supply because of the rationing, and another which sold postcards and all kinds of knick-knacks heralding they were 'from Weymouth'. Between these two was a dingy narrow window displaying some dusty relics that had once masqueraded as jewellery.
Their arrival had drawn the attention of three small boys playing with marbles in the gutter opposite and two women on their doorsteps further down the road towards the corner. A woman pushing a pram paused to browse the window of the shop selling knick-knacks but Ryga knew she was nosy to see who they were and where they went. The car didn't carry any police insignia or a blue light, but Ryga got the impression all their observers knew they were police just as they seemed to know in Wapping or Rotherhithe in London when he showed up.
The property fronted directly on to a small pavement. The bell clanged loudly as Ryga pushed open the door. He found himself in a tiny room crammed with grubby, glass-fronted display cases. Behind the grimy glass were watches, brooches and diamond rings which didn't look as though they'd been moved for years. There were no price labels attached to them. The linoleum was dusty and cracked and the place smelt as though it hadn't been aired in decades. Stale food, tobacco and coal smoke pervaded the air. Ahead was a small counter, behind which was a door, and through this emerged a diminutive man in his early sixties with a large nose, dark, darting eyes and a shaven, overlarge head that seemed to perch directly on to his hunched shoulders. He was dressed in a collarless blue-and-white-striped cotton shirt with the sleeves pushed up his hairy forearms and held in place with navy-blue armbands. Dark blue braces supported a rather baggy and dirty pair of trousers. His lined, sallow face broke into a broad grin as his gaze rested on Daniels.
'To what do I owe this pleasure, Sergeant?' he said, his small, dark eyes flicking to Ryga and quickly and quietly assessing him. Ryga wondered what he saw.
Daniels introduced Ryga.
'From Scotland Yard. I know. About that body found in Church Ope Cove.'
'How do you know about that?' Ryga asked.
'I know a lot of things.' Conrad smiled and then winked. 'It's in the newspaper.' His hand stretched down and he retrieved the said item from somewhere beneath the counter – a shelf most probably, and put it on the counter. Mountfort had got his front page. Ryga found himself staring at a picture of the dead man. He didn't think it would offend too many readers' sensibilities – it looked rather fudged, maybe deliberately so. The eyes were closed and the face just a mask but there was no mistaking the strong square jawline, prominent brow and wide mouth. Beside the picture of the dead man was one of Church Ope Cove and the caption Who is the mystery man found dead in the cove?
Quickly skimming the article, Ryga saw that Mountfort had mentioned the pinstriped suit and that the post-mortem was being conducted by the naval doctor, Captain Surgeon Kit Wakefield, which confirmed that Mountfort had indeed been earwigging his conversation at the station or had glimpsed Braybourne's note. Mountfort had also mentioned Scotland Yard and him by name but there was, thankfully, no personal background. Good. Mountfort had enough copy on the dead man for now to fill his column. There was also no mention of Eva Paisley having found the body. It just said 'a woman', but Ryga had a feeling that Mountfort would use more on that story in a future edition, especially if there wasn't much else breaking.
Daniels said, 'We need your expert opinion, Conrad, on something that was found on the dead man.'
'Then you'd better come through,' he answered, nipping to the front door, locking it and turning the sign round to Closed.
They followed him into the room from which he had emerged. In the centre, taking up most of the limited floor space, was a large round table covered with a grubby and tea-stained red velvet cloth. On it was a small navy-blue velvet pad and an anglepoise lamp with a flex that led up to the ceiling light. Four chairs were arranged around the table. In front of the small, unlit fire was a battered armchair with wooden arms and a sunken cushion, and in the opposite corner a wireless on top of a sideboard. There were no pictures on the distempered walls and no signs of any jewellery. Beyond, through the open door, Ryga caught a glimpse of a room that he guessed was the scullery.
Conrad waved his arms for them to be seated and took up position opposite them in front of the lamp and velvet pad. There was a Loupe beside it and Ryga wondered what Conrad had been studying through the magnifier before they'd entered and where the items now were.
He placed his hat on the table and, stretching into the pocket of his raincoat, removed the brown paper envelope and emptied the cufflinks on to the table. Conrad's skinny fingers reached out for them and gently, almost lovingly, placed them on the cloth. He switched on the anglepoise light and fixed the Loupe to his eye. Positioning the light, he examined the first cufflink, making no comment, only the occasional sniff and grunt. In the silence Ryga could hear the ticking of several clocks coming from the shop and a dog barking somewhere out in the street. It was stifling hot and he wanted to remove his coat but wouldn't, and by the thin line of perspiration on Daniels' forehead he was obviously suffering too. After what seemed an age, Conrad put down the cufflink and went through the same ritual with the second one. Daniels tossed Ryga a glance and raised his eyebrows. Someone tried the shop door then went away. The dog stopped barking and a child started crying. The clocks chimed the half hour. Finally Conrad removed the eyepiece and put the second cufflink beside the first one. He peered at them with lively excitement dancing in his dark eyes.
'Diamonds,' he announced. 'The real thing and very rare ones.'
Ryga's pulse quickened. All thoughts of discomfort because of the heat vanished.
'Are you sure?'
'Of course I am,' Conrad said, gleefully without taking offence.
'How can you tell?'
Conrad rolled his eyes and looked sorrowfully at Daniels.
'He doesn't know your pedigree like I do,' Daniels said with a smile. 'Conrad served ten years in Portland Prison for his part in a diamond raid in Hatton Garden in 1910 where he was apprenticed to a diamond cutter.'
'I was young and impressionable.'
'Not that young,' quipped Daniels.
'Twenty-three, Inspector Ryga. I got in with the wrong crowd. I wanted money and a good time and I wanted it quick. All I had to do was tell this geezer when we had a new valuable consignment of diamonds in, where they were and how to get into the safe.'
'Not much then?' Ryga said sarcastically.
'No,' Conrad answered, taking the comment as a genuine one. 'And it got me ten years hard labour over there digging rocks before the prison became the borstal. I was released in 1920.'
'And you settled down here directly after that?'
'No. Although I had done hard labour, I'd escaped the Great War. Might not be alive now if I'd gone to France up to me neck in mud and shit, scared witless. When I came out of prison my old master, the diamond cutter I was apprenticed to before I went to gaol, gave me a reference to take with me to Amsterdam.'
'A very forgiving man.'
'Yes,' Conrad said thoughtfully and sorrowfully. 'Pity there aren't more of them. I didn't care what I did in Amsterdam. I was just glad to get away and make a fresh start. I worked for this elderly Jew, a diamond cutter called Isaac Abramowski. Oh, I could never cut diamonds like him and I didn't even try, but I knew what to look for and, when it came my way, how to bargain for it and get the best price. We did well until . . . well, you know what happened next.'
Ryga did. Hitler.
'Isaac told me to get out but I wouldn't go without him and I didn't. I managed to wangle us both on a passage to dear old Blighty but the poor soul died on the crossing from acute sea sicknesses. He left me some money and some diamonds, which I sold, and I bought this little house and set up shop here. Not that there was much trade during the war and, before you ask, no, I didn't do black market stuff. I did my bit with the Home Guard and prayed the house wouldn't get bombed. It didn't. Business got brisker towards the end of the war and has been even better since. Lots of folk are hard up and need to sell things – comes as a bit of a shock for some of 'em who have never had to count their pennies before. Then there are others making money who want to buy good jewellery at knock-down prices which will make them more money in the future. That's where I come in. All of the stuff in the shop is second hand. It might not look much but that's deliberate. Don't want anyone knocking it off. It's good stuff and word gets around. I know you'll think it strange me coming back to the place that caused me so much pain, but I didn't fancy London and that was before the bombing. The moment I arrived in London off that boat I made for Weymouth – I didn't really know where else to go. I looked across at that rocky island. I didn't see that godawful prison, instead I saw liberty and old Isaac. My days of wanting money and a good life have long gone. I don't even need this shop but it keeps me amused. I do valuations not only for the nobs but also for you lot, young Sergeant Daniels here and his Sooper. Heard he's laid up with a broken ankle.'
'He is,' Daniels answered.
'That'll teach him to play football at his age.' He winked. 'Now to these diamonds. You say they were found on the dead man?'
'Yes, and we'd rather you keep that to yourself,' Ryga answered smartly, 'or we might have to take a closer look at your business transactions.'
'I'm not one to go running to the newspapers.'
'I'm glad to hear it. Do you recognize the victim?'
'Not from the picture in the paper.'
'Then take a closer look at these.' Ryga put the picture of the body and the one featuring a close-up of the face in front of the little man. He watched Conrad carefully, who scrutinized them closely in silence, but there was only the slight narrowing of his dark eyes before he shook his head.
'Can't say I do recognize him. No.'
Ryga took them back. 'About these diamonds?'
'What do you want to know?'
'Everything,' Ryga said eagerly. 'You said they are rare – how do you know that?'
'Do I know the Pope is Catholic?' Conrad said humorously.
Ryga smiled.
Conrad continued. 'The value of a diamond is determined by colour, cut, clarity and carat weight. These are pink diamonds, and that makes them one of rarest stones in the world.'
So how did the dead man come to have two?
'Natural pink diamonds can be found in Brazil, Russia, Siberia, South Africa, Tanzania and Canada, but most of 'em come from the Argyle Mine in Western Australia.'
Ryga threw Daniels a look. He knew the sergeant was thinking the same as him. The strong-featured face of the dead man, the rough hands. Had he been an Australian miner?
'Go on,' Ryga said, keenly interested.
'Lighter pinks are less valuable than deeper hues but you're still talking big money.'
'How much?'
'Many thousands of pounds. Admittedly these pink diamonds are small but they'd still fetch thousands.'
Then why hadn't the dead man sold them? wondered Ryga. Was it because he had stolen them and couldn't risk them being traced? Or perhaps they had been given to him and he couldn't bear parting with them. One thing was obvious, though – robbery hadn't been the motive for his murder. But perhaps the killer had been completely unaware of the diamond cufflinks, or that they were in fact real and rare diamonds. He mustn't have been a confederate of the dead man's if he had been involved in a diamond or jewellery theft.
Conrad continued, 'The other thing that makes these diamonds more valuable is the cut and that also tells us roughly how old they are. The cut is rectangular with rounded corners and the diamonds have a bigger and wider culet, not pointed. You can see it through the stone's top.'
'What's a culet?' asked Daniels. Ryga was about to ask the same.
'It's the diamond's bottom facet and it's the quickest way to tell if the diamond is antique rather than modern. These diamonds are also fiery and warm rather than brilliant like modern diamonds are today. They've got a kind of inner light,' he said wistfully, staring down at them. 'They're very precious,' he added warmly. 'These diamonds are old mine cut.'
'And that means?' prompted Ryga.
'As I said rare, beautiful and very valuable. But I know what you're after,' he quickly added. 'Their age.' He sniffed and took a deep breath as though composing his thoughts or was that his emotions? thought Ryga.
'There are three cuts,' Conrad continued. 'European, modern and old mine. Modern came into being around about 1920. Before that it was European and before that old mine, which has been used since the end of the seventeenth century, got more popular with the Victorians and stayed around right up until thirty years ago, but most of them date back to the 1800s. They're usually set in expensive mountings not cheap pewter like this.' He pointed a bony finger at the diamonds still bathed in light from the lamp.
'Can you tell who cut them?'
Conrad shook his head. 'Wouldn't make much difference if I could. It would be practically nigh on impossible to trace them by that means. Not unless you can find the cutter's records. Could have been cut abroad. Old mine cut diamonds are very scarce, though.' He shrugged, then added, 'If someone has one they tend to hold on to it, especially if it is pink. Most of these types of diamonds have been kept within the family as heirlooms, passed from one generation to the next.'
'Maybe the family were forced to sell them. As you said, times are hard for a lot of people – death duties etc.,' said Ryga. 'And to do so they'd have sold them how?'
'At auction more than likely. You could try the big auction houses who handle this sort of thing. You're thinking if they had two old, pink, mine cut diamonds they might have more?'
'Something like that, and perhaps these diamonds started out as something different – a brooch, necklace or ring. And whoever bought them had them made into cufflinks.'
Conrad eyed Ryga pitifully. 'And destroyed some of their beauty and value? No, not if he bought them.'
'But he or someone else could have stolen them and then disguised them in this way so they wouldn't be traced.'
'Maybe,' Conrad acquiesced.
'Ever seen anything like this before?'
'Only once with Isaac in Amsterdam just before the war, about 1938. It was a ring with three pink stones. Beautiful.'
